


If I Allowed It

by malacophilous (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Amount of Body Parts, F/M, Facetious suicidal ideation, John and Greg are BFFs, John is straight for once, Language, M/M, Matchmaking, Mild Kink, Romance, Silly, Weirdness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-16
Updated: 2011-05-16
Packaged: 2017-10-29 16:35:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/321904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/malacophilous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Lestrade are pub buddy BFFs. Lestrade is obsessed with Sherlock. Sherlock is obsessed with Lestrade. Poor John is stuck in the middle, and can't help but play matchmaker.  Written pre-S2.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If I Allowed It

_‘I knew that I had come face to face with someone whose mere personality was so fascinating that, if I allowed it to do so, it would absorb my whole nature, my whole soul, my very art itself.’_

-Oscar Wilde, _The Picture of Dorian Gray_

‘That’s pretty bad,’ said John to the surface of the bar, but he was grinning into his glass of beer.  ‘Actually, that’s fantastically terrible.  God, I’m sorry,’ he laughed, ‘I just—you—’  John snickered, trying his best to school his face into an expression of pity and understanding, but a smile continued to wobble about his lips.

 

Lestrade scrubbed at his face, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes.  ‘I _know_.  Christ, what am I going to do?’

 

‘Well,’ said John, scooting Lestrade’s glass closer to him, making a little of its contents slosh onto the coaster, ‘my professional advice is to get smashed, go to bed and call me in the morning.’

 

Lestrade groaned.  ‘You’re a crap doctor, you know that?’

 

John grinned, clapping him on the shoulder.  ‘At least I’m not in love with Sherlock.’

 

 

‘Have you got an orientation?’

 

It was late, one of those evenings when both Sherlock and John were blogging assiduously and putting off going to bed.  Sherlock glanced up quickly from his laptop, deadpan.  ‘John, we’ve had this discussion.’

 

‘Look, I’m not asking you out.’

 

Sherlock looked self-satisfied, raising an eyebrow.  ‘Sure, John.  Spin your web of self-deception, but the longing will creep up on you one of these days.’  He sighed theatrically.  ‘Whatever helps you sleep at night.’

 

John threw a crumpled ball of paper at him, laughing.  It bounced off Sherlock’s chest and rolled onto the floor.  ‘I’m serious, you wanker!  I’m curious.  Surely you’ve had some kind of... of fling, or something.’

 

Sherlock went on typing, wearing a smirk.  ‘Not a fling, no.’

 

‘Anything at all?’

 

A derisive snort.  ‘Ha!’

 

‘You’re lying.’

 

‘I’m being evasive, that’s different.  One cannot lie with a “ha!”’

 

John frowned at him.  ‘Come on, Sherlock, you can tell me.  You’ve trusted me with your life.’

 

‘That’s hardly the point.’

 

‘It’s only fair!  I told you about the thing in the mortuary during my second year at Barts.’

 

Sherlock snickered.  ‘Which, while highly entertaining, is not germane to the issue.’

 

‘Can you say no to the puppy eyes?’  John made an exaggeratedly pitiful face, clasping his hands together under his chin.  ‘Just this once, I dare you, show that you’ve got a bit of human feeling.’

 

Sherlock looked up from his computer, not at John but pointedly, haughtily away.  ‘I am impervious to your wiles, John Watson.’

 

‘Come off it, I’m not going to stop pestering you until you tell me.’

 

‘You’ll stop... eventually,’ Sherlock said with an ominous sort of confidence, going back to his blog post.

 

 

The next week went something along these lines:

 

‘Are you straight?’

 

‘No comment.’

 

Later:

 

‘So you’re gay?’

 

‘Hardly.’

 

‘Hardly as in “far from it” or hard-ly as in “in a very hard fashion”?’

 

‘Shut up and examine the corpse, John.’

 

The following day:

 

‘Bisexual, then?’

 

‘The term bisexual is a misnomer; there are far more than two genders to which one can be attracted.’

 

‘That’s not an answer.’

 

‘Yes it is.’

 

And the day after that:

 

‘Well, you’re not asexual.’

 

‘How did you reach that conclusion?’

 

But Sherlock had responded a little too quickly, and John looked smug.

 

And again:

 

‘Pansexual?’

 

‘You had to look that up, didn’t you?’

 

‘...yes.’

 

‘No.’

 

‘Damn.’

 

Likewise:

 

‘Demisexual?’

 

‘Been on Wikipedia again, I notice.’

 

‘Shut up and answer the question.’

 

‘No.’

 

‘You realise that whenever you say no, you’re narrowing down the options for me.’

 

‘Certainly.  Where’s the evidence bag?’

 

And so on:

 

‘Zoosexual?’

 

Sherlock burst out laughing.  ‘God, no.’

 

And so forth:

 

‘Well you can’t be a lesbian.’

 

‘Point.’

 

 _Et cetera_ :

 

‘Are you strictly attracted to transvestites, drag queens, transgender or intersexed individuals, or some other category of people who don’t fall into traditional gender norms?’

 

‘I’m glad to see you’re broadening your horizons, John.  I applaud your new non-heteronormative outlook on life.’

 

‘You’re mocking me, aren’t you?’

 

‘Oh, how keenly you observe.’

 

 _Ad nauseum_ :

 

‘Are you attracted to Lestrade?’

 

Sherlock looked up from his phone.  They were in the back of a cab; he couldn’t escape.

 

‘I beg your pardon?’

 

‘I said, are you—’

 

‘I heard you fine, John.  I was simply expressing my disbelief.’

 

John stared him down.  Sherlock went back to scrolling pointlessly through his phone, avoiding John’s gaze.

 

‘I’m right, aren’t I?’

 

‘I didn’t say that.’

 

‘But am I wrong?’

 

Sherlock didn’t answer.

 

‘Ha!’ John crowed, punching the air victoriously.

 

‘If you breathe a word of this to _anyone_ ,’ Sherlock said through clenched teeth, ‘I will end you.’

 

And so.

 

 

Lestrade sounded anxious; John could hear the telly in the background on the other end of the line; Stephen Fry announcing that it was time for General Ignorance.  ‘Any news?’

 

‘Are you watching QI?’ said John instead of answering.

 

‘Research,’ said Lestrade.

 

‘But Sherlock hates QI.’

 

‘I’m trying to find intelligent things to say to him.  Been taking notes—Stephen Fry is a lifesaver.  Why does Sherlock hate QI?’

 

‘By the time anyone answers a question accurately, he’s already bored.’

 

‘He’ll probably be bored with me, then.’

 

John could hear the grin in his own voice.  ‘Nope.’

 

There was a long pause.  From Lestrade’s telly, John heard a buzzer that sounded like someone had stepped on a cat.

 

‘Do you mean...?’

 

‘Yes.’

 

‘He’s actually...?’

 

‘Thoroughly.’

 

‘Do you think that if I said something...?’

 

John sighed.  ‘Ah, as for that, I have no idea.  You know Sherlock, he’s weird about things like this.’

 

‘He’s weird about everything.’

 

‘True.’

 

Silence, broken by closing theme music.  ‘Right.  What should I do?’

 

‘I honestly don’t know.’

 

‘Get smashed?’

 

‘Er.’

 

‘What, not get smashed?’

 

‘At this stage, I don’t recommend it.’

 

‘But I can’t do anything!’  Lestrade sounded like he was gnashing his teeth.  ‘If I say something, he’ll be weird.  If I _don’t_ say something, he’ll keep being untouchable and weird and gorgeous and—’

 

‘There’s still a distinct possibility that he might leave a human heart in your in-tray, though.’

 

Lestrade sighed.  ‘That’s not the sort of thing the boys at the office take kindly to.’

 

‘My first suggestion, if you want to pursue this, is to work on your grammar.’

 

Lestrade made a struggling noise.  ‘The sort of thing to which the boys at the office would not take kindly...?’

 

John frowned.  ‘I think that’s right.’

 

‘Sounds like bollocks,’ said Lestrade firmly.  ‘Grammar is bollocks.’

 

‘Speaking of bollocks,’ said John, trying to lighten the mood, ‘I’ve seen his by accident a couple of times—I mean, when you live with another bloke and all that—and I’m not an authority on the subject, but they were quite... nice.’

 

Lestrade snorted.  ‘Nice?’

 

‘Well, from a medical perspective.  I mean, healthy and well-proportioned for a man his age.’

 

‘Oh, good,’ Lestrade grumbled sarcastically.  ‘It’s nice to know the object of my affections doesn’t have testicular cancer.  Why don’t you palpate them for me just to be sure?’

 

‘You’re joking.’

 

‘If it would lead to him getting off with me, I’m not.’

 

John clutched his forehead.  ‘I’m not going to jiggle his balls and propose to him for you, mate.’

 

‘You’re a bastard, John.  A right bastard.’

 

‘And a crap doctor, as well.’

 

‘Yeah, that too.’

 

‘At least you know, now.’

 

‘Right.  At least I know.’

 

Silence.  Lestrade had turned off his telly.

 

‘Er, so,’ said John.  ‘What’s your plan of action?’

 

‘No fucking idea,’ said Lestrade.

 

‘Same here,’ said John.

 

‘Pub?’

 

‘Be there in ten.’

 

They rang off.

 

 

Lestrade was on his sixth beer; John was on his second.

 

‘He said he’d end me,’ John noted, ‘which, coming from him, could just be eyeball-related flatmate pranks, or actual, grisly death.’

 

‘He won’t know you told me if I don’t mention it,’ said Lestrade, showing his level of intoxication by not realising that of course Sherlock would know, he was bloody Sherlock.

 

John sighed and flagged down the bartender.  ‘Just keep telling yourself that, mate.’

 

 

‘Why haven’t you told him?’ John asked.

 

Sherlock scowled at him from over the top of his book.  ‘Are you an actual _lunatic_?  I haven’t said anything because I work with him.’

 

‘Yes, but what if you didn’t?’

 

‘He used to be married.’

 

‘He’s divorced now, you know.’

 

‘I know, I told him about his wife’s multiple affairs.’

 

John shook his head.  ‘Classy, Sherlock.’

 

‘At least I didn’t make it up.’

 

‘Still, that was a prick thing to do.’

 

‘Oh, so I should abandon the object of my affections—such as they are—to a loveless, faithless marriage?  Thank you, John, for your sterling relationship advice.  Have you thought about writing a book?  _How To Be A Complete And Raging Berk_ , by John Watson, MD.  You’d make millions.’

 

John rolled his eyes, smiling.  ‘Look at it this way: at least I haven’t jiggled your balls.’

 

Sherlock looked alarmed for a moment, but laughed.  ‘Yes, I suppose there is that angle to consider.  I can proudly say that I have lived a life free of ball-jiggling from my colleagues.’

 

‘Unless you count Molly.’

 

Sherlock made a face.  ‘That was _one time_.’

 

 

There are few circumstances in life wherein a situation could be said to have potentially been even more awkward if there _hadn’t_ been a decapitated body in the room, but when Sherlock, John and Lestrade were all reunited again, the circumstances were precisely that.

 

‘It’s been here for two days,’ said Sherlock after examining the body.  ‘Any sign of the head?’

 

Lestrade shoved his hands into his pockets.  ‘Unfortunately, no.’

 

‘Fine.  You provide the head, I’ll provide the killer.’

 

He strode out; Lestrade looked anxiously at John, who shrugged.

 

‘You heard him, mate,’ said John, somehow still able to joke even when in the presence of a headless corpse.  ‘You give him head, he’ll solve the case.’

 

‘Bastard,’ Lestrade groaned hopelessly.  ‘You’re such a _bastard_ , John.’

 

 

 _Thank God he found the head-chopper.  I was starting to think I’d actually have to suck his cock. –L_

 _You say that like it would be a horrible ordeal for you. –J_

 _Under the circumstances, yes.  I think it would count as bribing the police. –L_

 _Told him yet? –J_

 _I think you’d know if I did.  He’d probably be laughing his arse off. –L_

 _Look, why don’t I just tell him for you and get it over with? –J_

 _Don’t end a sentence with a preposition. –L_

 _Jesus, you’re really serious about this, aren’t you?  I thought grammar was bollocks. –J_

 _It’s absolute flaming bollocks, but I don’t give a damn, if it’s what I have to do to catch his eye. –L_

 _So how about it?  Should I talk? –J_

 _NO PLEASE STOP. –L_

 _WELL WHY NOT QUERY. –J_

 _BECAUSE HE WILL AVOID ME LIKE THE PLAGUE STOP. –L_

 _NO HE WON’T STOP. –J_

 _YES HE WILL STOP. –L_

 _WHY ARE WE TEXTING LIKE THEY’RE TELEGRAMS QUERY. –J_

 _I DON’T EVEN FUCKING KNOW STOP. –L_

 _Seriously, he’s right here on the sofa.  Let me talk to him. –J_

 _Is he looking gorgeous this evening? –L_

 _Er, I’m not really in a position to say. –J_

 _Even straight men can appreciate male beauty from a purely aesthetic perspective. –L_

 _Perhaps I’m just dim, but he looks like regular old Sherlock to me. –J_

 _How’s he sitting? –L_

 _Feet up on the coffee table, in pyjamas. –J_

 _I’ll bet he looks stunning in pyjamas! –L_

 _Next you’re going to ask me what colour knickers he’s got on. –J_

 _Well, speaking as a friend, if you know, you really ought to tell me. –L_

 _He doesn’t wear pants, as far as I’ve noticed. –J_

 _John you had better stop or I’ll have to text with one hand. –L_

 _...I am supremely uncomfortable right now. –J_

‘I’m going mad, John.’

 

John squinted at the clock on his nightstand.  ‘It’s four in the morning, Greg, why are you calling me?  Why are you even awake?’

 

‘I’ve been up all night writing poetry,’ said Lestrade, sounding highly caffeinated.

 

John frowned.  ‘I didn’t know you wrote poetry.’

 

‘It’s a recent development.  Can I read you some?’

 

Perhaps it would lull John back to sleep.  ‘Knock yourself out.’

 

‘ _Your hair curls like the fingers of a freshly-severed hand—’_

‘You can’t be serious.’

 

‘Shut up, John.  _And your eyes are like the sky before a storm—’_

‘That’s a bit less nauseating.’

 

‘Hush, I’m reciting, you’ll throw me off.  _I meet your gaze over a face desiccated by worms_ —’

 

‘I’m going to need extensive therapy after this, and you’re going to pay for it.’

 

‘ _And gasp like a fish stranded on dry land—’_

‘Pretty sure you can’t gasp if you have gills, mate.’

 

‘How do you like it so far?’ said Lestrade, jittery.  ‘Would Sherlock like it?’

 

John grimaced.  ‘It has certain elements that would appeal to him, yes.  But tell me, just so I can sleep at night, why couldn’t you rhyme “storm” with “form”?  We’re constantly filling out forms after cases wrap up.’

 

‘I thought about it,’ said Lestrade earnestly, tapping a pen against his teeth, ‘but I felt it didn’t ring true and express the depth of my feelings.’

 

‘Right.  It’s official: you’re mental.  I’m going back to bed.’

 

‘Wait, I haven’t got to the part with the bombs yet!’

 

‘ _Goodnight_ , Greg.’

 

 

‘Sherlock,’ said John as they picked at rather terrible curry out of paper boxes, ‘does it hurt, repressing your sexual urges?’

 

Sherlock snorted with laughter, accidentally getting a lentil up his nose.  After several strained moments with a handkerchief he was right again, and answered.  ‘What makes you think I’m repressed?’

 

‘You’re clearly very attached to Greg,’ John explained, ‘and yet you’re refusing to do anything about it.’

 

Sherlock wrinkled his nose.  ‘Since when does he have a first name?’

 

John rolled his eyes.  ‘Since he was born, I imagine.  You have dozens of copies of his ID that you nicked off him, haven’t you ever actually looked at one?’

 

‘Only at his picture.’

 

John had to force down the urge to say ‘ _awwwww’_.  ‘But honestly, doesn’t it bother you that he’s right there, within reach, practically handed to you on a silver platter, and you’re still being a cold motherfucker to him at every opportunity?’

 

‘I am not being a cold motherfucker,’ said Sherlock.

 

‘You are being,’ said John, ‘the coldest motherfucker alive.’

 

Sherlock looked a little concerned, but that could have just been vestiges of his nostril bean.  ‘Do you think I’ve hurt his feelings?’

 

‘Well, we’ve talked about it—’

 

Sherlock tensed.  ‘You didn’t _tell_ him, did you?’

 

John instantly switched on a wide-eyed innocent look.  ‘No, I promised.’

 

‘I only ask because I know he’s your BFF now and everything—’

 

John had to take a moment to extract a few lentils from his own nose, after that, cackling with laughter.  ‘Sherlock, grown people don’t say BFF.’

 

Sherlock scowled, his tone defensive.  ‘They do on telly.’

 

‘On celebrity gossip programmes, maybe.’

 

‘That aside, are you sure you haven’t told him?’

 

John lied through his smiling teeth.  ‘Absolutely.’

 

‘Good,’ said Sherlock, grumbling a little.  ‘Because if a situation ever comes up in which it would be appropriate to mention it to him—and there won’t—I want him to be pleasantly surprised.’

 

 

‘There were flowers on my desk this morning,’ said Lestrade, sipping his beer, trying not to grin but failing, resulting in a bit of foam ending up on his jacket.

 

John made an impressed face.  ‘Oooer, who from?’

 

‘ _From whom_ ,’ Lestrade corrected him, though it looked as if it caused him great pain to do so.  ‘And when I say they weren’t so much flowers as Venus Fly Traps, you may understand the look of triumph on my face.’

 

‘That’s fantastic!’ said John, beaming.  ‘Really, I’m happy for you.’

 

‘It’s _got_ to be Sherlock,’ said Lestrade.  ‘I mean, who else would send me a carnivorous bouquet?’

 

John couldn’t help himself.  ‘One of the countless serial killers you’ve apprehended in your career.’

 

Lestrade sagged in his chair.  ‘You’ve got a point.  Damn.’

 

‘However,’ said John brightly, ‘I could check Sherlock’s receipts.’

 

Lestrade’s eyes grew wide.  ‘Would you really?’

 

‘Sure.’

 

‘Honestly?’

 

‘On one condition.’

 

Lestrade looked so determined it was almost ridiculous.  ‘Name your price.’

 

‘You have to send him that ghastly poem where you compare his hair to decomposing innards.’

 

‘Severed hands!’

 

‘Right,’ said John, snickering, ‘of course.’

 

 

‘Oh, look,’ said John loudly from the stairs, ‘Sherlock, you’ve got a letter!’

 

‘Stab it onto the mantelpiece repeatedly, as if it were Mycroft’s face,’ Sherlock sighed from the kitchen.

 

John was used to his hyperbole and shrugged it off.  ‘No, I think you really ought to have a look, might be important.’

 

‘Nothing is important,’ Sherlock droned.

 

John, who had been taking his coat off just inside the door, took the handful of post into the kitchen—

 

And there was Sherlock, seated at the table, the crumpled wreckage of a several dozen custard cream packets littering the floor around his chair.

 

‘Dear God,’ said John, flabbergasted, ‘you’ve _eaten_.’

 

‘Kill me now, John.  Have you got your revolver on you, by any chance?’

 

‘No, I just got back from Tesco.’  He waved the shopping bag in front of Sherlock’s glazed eyes before setting it on the counter.  ‘You sent me out for sugar, remember?’

 

‘Oh, yes,’ said Sherlock distantly, slumped in his chair, the side of his forehead against the tabletop.  ‘Sugar.  Bless you, John.  You’re a damned good man.  A fine man, who serves his country well.  Why haven’t you been knighted?  It’s only a matter of time.  Get me a spoon, will you?  A really big one.’

 

John gave him a startled look.  ‘You’re not going to eat sugar straight from the box, are you?’

 

‘Yes,’ said Sherlock, rolling his head away from John to face the wall, then rolling it back.  ‘Yes, John, and call for more.  I am heartbroken, John.  My life is meaningless.’

 

‘Gosh, when you have emotions,’ John said wonderingly, ‘you really have emotions, don’t you?’

 

‘He will never love meeeee,’ Sherlock whined, thumping his head against the table.  ‘I’m just the Freak, you know.  Five years of knowing him and providing an exemplary service and also being somewhat attractive even while covered in blood and things, and what thanks do I get?  Nothing.  Zero thanks.’

 

‘If he weren’t thankful he wouldn’t keep asking for your help.’

 

‘It’s just pity, John.  It’s pity-work.’  And he laughed bitterly like someone out of a soap opera.

 

John suddenly remembered the letter in his hand.  ‘Cheer up, I’ve got something for you.’

 

‘Is it arsenic?’ Sherlock asked vaguely, still thumping his head.  ‘Ooh, or a spear.  You could hold a spear and I could run at it.’

 

John waited until Sherlock was on the upswing of a thump, slipped the envelope onto the table in front of him and watched as Sherlock bonked his face into it.

 

‘What’s this?’ he said mournfully.

 

‘It’s a poem from your dream-man.’

 

Sherlock sat up, the envelope stuck to his forehead.  When he plucked it off, his eyes were bright.  ‘David Bowie?’

 

John snorted.  ‘No, idiot!  Lestrade.’

 

Sherlock scrabbled at the envelope, tearing it open lopsidedly, grinning like a fool.  ‘Be more specific in the future, John, _honestly_.’

 

 

 _Sherlock read your gothic love poem. –J_

 _OH MY FUCKING GOD JOHN WHAT DID HE SAY? –L_

 _Well he squealed a little. –J_

 _Was it a beautiful squeal?  It was, wasn’t it? –L_

 _Er, sure.  Okay. –J_

 _Did he say anything, though?  It could have been a squeal of disdain. –L_

 _He did mention that it takes a great man to rhyme ‘cadaver’ with ‘laughter’. –J_

 _THIS IS A GOOD SIGN, RIGHT? –L_

 _He also said that your use of organs as an extended metaphor was ‘bloody stunning’. –J_

 _What should I do?  Should I send him some of the others? -L_

 _How many are there? –J_

 _Well over fifty, as of yesterday. –L_

 _Good God, man, the one you sent was practically the length of War and Peace! –J_

 _When inspiration strikes me my lyrical powers cannot be contained. –L_

 _You two should get a nice padded cell for the honeymoon. –J_

 _Is that a serious suggestion?  Has he shown any interest in that kind of thing?  Would he, for instance, be into straitjacket bondage?  Just for future reference.  –L_

 _Have I ever told you that you’re a twisted old fuck, Greg?  Because you are. –J_

 _I know.  That’s why Sherlock and I are perfect for each other, eh? –L_

 _You are so perfect for each other it’s actually kind of sickening. –J_

‘Good morning, John!’ Sherlock trilled, twirling into the sitting room.  ‘It’s a beautiful day!’

 

‘It’s raining,’ said John.

 

‘Love is in the air!’ Sherlock sang tunelessly.

 

‘I’ll grant you that,’ John agreed.

 

Sherlock sat on the arm of John’s chair and hugged John’s head.  ‘Life is full to bursting with possibilities, like a corpse in the sun!’

 

John made a face from under Sherlock’s arm.  ‘You lost me at the corpse part.’

 

‘I,’ Sherlock announced proudly, ‘have sent Lestrade a human heart.’

 

‘Have you?’

 

‘I have, in fact.’

 

‘That’s really excellent, Sherlock,’ said John, his voice muffled.  ‘Glad to hear you’re embracing your romantic side.  May I have my head back, please?’

 

‘No,’ said Sherlock happily, cuddling John’s hair and sighing like a lovesick schoolgirl.  ‘I am using it just now.’

 

 

When John met Lestrade at the pub, he was brimming with news.  ‘Not only did he send me a human heart, just like you said, but he picked the lock on my desk drawer, put it in there, and locked it again!’

 

‘I’m overjoyed for you,’ said John with a grimace, patting Lestrade on the back.  ‘Now, is there any chance that you two will actually _talk_ to each other before you end up horrifying some unsuspecting person or getting arrested?’

 

‘God, I don’t know,’ Lestrade said, his smile fading.  ‘What if he’s just toying with me?’

 

John grew very solemn.  ‘Last night he said you may have even edged out David Bowie as holder of the title of his dream-man.’

 

Lestrade gave him a blank look.  ‘The significance being...?’

 

John threw up his hands in a passionate gesture.  ‘Come on, mate, _David Bowie_!’

 

‘I’m, er... not getting the connection.’

 

John whacked Lestrade on the back of the head (in a nice way).  ‘How the hell have you known Sherlock for five sodding years and not found out about his David Bowie obsession?’

 

Lestrade looked embarrassed.  ‘Er...’

 

‘Because,’ said John, ‘ _you never talk to each other outside of work._   I know for a fact that he’s at the flat right now.  We’re going back there—both of us.  I am taking executive control of the situation.  You don’t have a choice.  And if I have to strap you both together with surgical tape and bandages so you actually touch each other, then God help me, I won’t hesitate.’

 

‘Now who’s the twisted old fuck?’ Lestrade chided, elbowing him.

 

‘Did I go all giddy over having a bloody organ in my desk?’ said John, getting to his feet.  ‘No.  So I’m pretty sure you still have the honour of being the Chairman of Creepiness.’

 

 

‘’M home!’ John called.

 

‘Kitchen,’ Sherlock replied.

 

‘Not eating more biscuits, I hope?’

 

‘No,’ said Sherlock, sticking his head petulantly round the door, ‘because I’m—oh my God, he’s in the flat.’

 

He had spotted Lestrade, who was peering over John’s shoulder, uncharacteristically shyly.

 

‘Yes,’ said John, grabbing Lestrade by the shoulders and frog-marching him into full view.  ‘We were at the pub, and I thought, “Why not have him round for a bit of a chat?”’

 

‘A chat about what?’ said Sherlock who was now just barely peeking round the edge of the kitchen door, his face only visible from the nose up.

 

John sighed exasperatedly.  ‘About how the two of you should just bloody snog already, you infuriating bastards!’

 

Sherlock frowned.  ‘I don’t think that’d be a very long conversation, John.  In fact, I believe you just wrapped it up nicely.  It could have been done over the phone or, better yet, via text message.’

 

‘That’s not the point!’

 

‘I—’ Lestrade started, and John whirled to look at him, eyes wide, making a sort of _go on_ gesture with his eyebrows.  ‘Er, sorry, John, have you got something in your eye?’

 

John’s hands twitched at his sides as if he was fighting the urge to strangle him.  ‘No, I’m in splendid health.  You were saying?’

 

‘Oh.  Er, right.’  Lestrade glanced back at what could be seen of Sherlock.  ‘I got your heart.’

 

When he spoke, Sherlock’s voice was unnaturally high.  ‘Oh, did you?’

 

‘Yes, it looks, er, rather unusual.  I mean, not that I see hearts often, but—’

 

Sherlock brightened.  ‘It’s got dextro-Transposition of the greater arteries.’

 

‘Ah.  That would be why it looks odd, I suppose.’  Lestrade shuffled his feet.  ‘Did you, er, did you like my poem?’

 

Sherlock poked his head entirely round the door, now.  His voice sounded almost shivery with joy, and he closed his eyes rapturously for a moment.  (John finally realised what Mrs Hudson had meant by it being indecent when Sherlock was happy).  ‘It was _wonderful_.’

 

They stood staring at each other for a silent minute.

 

John cleared his throat loudly.  ‘Well, there are plenty of condoms in the medicine cabinet.  I’ll just go, then, shall I?’

 

Sherlock said, ‘No, you don’t have to leave!’ just as Lestrade was saying, ‘All right, then, see you when we see you.’  They stared at each other again.

 

‘You two,’ said John, ‘are absolutely bonkers for each other, and I think I’m perfectly within the bounds of reasonable behaviour by saying that if you don’t do something about it _right now_ I would not be held accountable for murdering you both.’  He scowled at them, crossing his arms over his jumper.  ‘Go on.’  He jerked his chin in their direction.  ‘Snog already, for the love of _God_.’

 

‘If I am terrible,’ said Sherlock bravely, sounding like a proud aristocrat about to be led to the guillotine as he stepped fully into the room, ‘one must remember that this counts as performing under duress.  Also with an audience.’

 

‘Point taken,’ said John.

 

‘Could I have a mint or something?’ Lestrade asked quietly.  ‘Only I’ve just been drinking.’

 

John raised his eyes to the heavens, praying for the end.  ‘No, you may not have a fucking mint, Greg, just grab him, for the sake of my sanity.’

 

Sherlock rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, still a good two yards away from Lestrade.  ‘I don’t really give a toss, to be honest.’

 

‘Oh,’ said Lestrade.

 

‘Quite,’ said Sherlock.

 

Within the span of a second they had collided, a tangle of arms and legs and weirdness, snogging the life out of each other until Lestrade tripped on the edge of the rug and they toppled, sprawling, onto the floor, but they didn’t pay attention, continuing to kiss and grope with the force of several years’ worth of pent-up sexual frustration.

 

‘Condoms, remember, are in the medicine cabinet,’ said John, ‘if you even get that far.  Godspeed, lads, I’m out for a pint.’

 

 

 **  
_Epilogue_   
**

The pub was more crowded when John returned, and he found himself without a seat, aimlessly milling about in the chattering jumble of people until he bumped into someone, sloshing their drink.

 

‘Sorry,’ he said, turning to see the victim of his wayward elbow.

 

‘Oh,’ said Anthea.  ‘Hi.  Bit crowded, isn’t it?’

 

They went for a walk.

 

‘So Sherlock’s getting the intellect fucked out of him by Detective Inspector Lestrade?’

 

John laughed.  ‘If you want to put it that way.’

 

‘It’s about time,’ said Anthea, sighing.  ‘It’s about time for Mycroft, too.’

 

John raised an eyebrow.  ‘Sorry?’

 

‘Oh.’  Anthea chuckled behind her hand.  ‘If you tell anyone this, I’ll have to kill you.’

 

John ironed out his smile.  ‘I take that threat very seriously.’

 

‘Mycroft’s finally won over the PM.  They’re probably getting busy as we speak.’

 

John made a face.  ‘You’re... you’re not _serious_ , are you?’

 

Anthea looked grave for a moment, then burst out into a musical laugh.  ‘Of course I’m not serious, you perv!  Honestly, John, Mycroft’s about as sexually active as my handbag.’

 

‘I dunno,’ said John with a smirk, ‘that’s a pretty debauched handbag.’

 

Anthea shook her head, smiling.  ‘You’re very strange, John.’

 

They walked on.

 

‘I’ve just realised,’ said John.

 

‘Hmm?’

 

‘We’re the official Holmes sidekicks, aren’t we?’

 

‘I suppose it has its benefits.’

 

‘There should be a sidekicks’ union.’

 

‘I prefer to work freelance.’

 

‘What’s your real name?’ John asked.

 

‘Er,’ she said, ‘Flora.’

 

John looked at her sternly.  ‘It’s not, is it?’

 

She grinned, shaking her head.  ‘No.’

 

The following days went something along these lines:

 

‘Is your name Penelope?’

 

‘Sorry, no.’

 

Later:

 

‘Beth?’

 

‘Not even close.’

 

The following day:

 

‘Is it Emerald?’

 

‘Nope, sorry.’

 

‘I’m going to keep guessing until I figure it out.’

 

‘There are billions of names, John.’

 

‘I realise that.  Will you tell me honestly when I guess the right one?’

 

A considering hum.  ‘Yeah, all right.’

 

‘Then I’m going to keep guessing.’

 

‘You’ll give up eventually.’

 

‘Probably not.’

 

Soon after:

 

‘What about Margaret?’

 

And so.


End file.
